


what’s so simple in the moonlight by the morning never is

by jublis



Series: heirloom [5]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Complicated Relationships with Parents, Everyone has feelings, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gaang (Avatar) as Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Rated T for Toph, aang is jewish but in an air nomad way, and cmon we know zuko's third favorite word is fuck, bro this is so emotional, katara and suki is a duo i didnt know i needed til i wrote it, most of them are trauma, not me using jewish traditions to create air nomad lore, suki is so hot pls ma'am im a simple lesbian, worldbuilding is so fun...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis
Summary: Zuko hums. He draws a line in the earth with his finger, then another. “We’re at war,” he says. “Long-term isn’t the first thing in people’s minds. You find love wherever you can and rush along with it for as long as it lets you.”“We were at war,” Sokka says.Zuko blinks at him. “What?”“Wewereat war,” Sokka repeats. He turns to face Zuko fully, and despite the seriousness of his voice, he just looks tired. “You used present tense. We’re notatwar anymore, Zuko.”“Oh,” Zuko says, blinking at his own hands. “I didn’t even notice I said it.”Sokka smiles ruefully at him. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s easy to let it slip.”Or, late night conversations. Featuring what it means to be a hero, that uneasy feeling of hope, and a sky full of stars.
Relationships: Katara & Suki (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Suki/Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Zuko
Series: heirloom [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808977
Comments: 69
Kudos: 803





	what’s so simple in the moonlight by the morning never is

**Author's Note:**

> *hands this to you* here. take it.
> 
> holy shit, y'all. i definitely cried writing this. i hope you like it as much as i did.
> 
> title is from "lua," by bright eyes, which just sets the vibe for this whole fic.
> 
> see y'all at the end notes!

**i.**

The nightmare comes to him in bits and pieces, as it so often does.

The crackling of fire. Bouts of cold laughter, washing over him in such a way that it freezes him down to his very bones, shivering and unmoving and gasping for air. The roaring of a crowd, chanting for more, for blood, for _honor, honor, honor._

Zuko lies in his bed and pries his eyes open, unblinking, waiting for the images to dwindle from behind his eyelids. The waking up is always the hardest part. 

He turns around, heart beating furiously in his chest, and grasps at empty sheets. Zuko bites down on the sheer panic that races through his body at that realization, sharp and electric as lightning—Agni, he refuses to laugh at _that_ metaphor, how fucked up would that be? _It’s fine_ , he tells himself. _He’s_ fine. It’s getting progressively rarer for him to wake up alone, these days, but it’s still known to happen. Both Sokka and Suki have their own quarters and their relationship isn’t public yet, so keeping up appearances is something Zuko has insisted on, at least for now, as he catches his bearings as the new ruler of an entire nation. 

That train of thought went downhill _fast_. He’s usually pretty good at forcing himself not to spiral, but waking up in the dead of night inside the place that harbors nearly all of his childhood traumas kind of does the trick.

Zuko heaves himself up into a sitting position, trying not to grimace at the feeling of the soft silk against his bare skin. The feeling of wrongness that settles over him afterwards is as awful as any nightmare. 

There are words to describe what he feels, but Zuko doesn’t know them. He’s heard stories, though; they all have. A war is nothing without its scars, and what are they but the children of those very wounds?

A clatter followed by some loud cursing comes from the inner courtyard, just outside Zuko’s bedroom window. He’s up and moving before he even thinks about it, body taut with tension and breath carefully controlled, hands ready to burn. Assassination attempts are normally less noisy than this, but he can’t be too careful. He stalks toward the window, which is sealed shut, and leans against the wall so he can get a better look at the ground below.

And, as suddenly as it came, the fear sips away from Zuko, like water down a stream. It’s only Sokka, dressed in his casual blue robes, grasping at his own hand with a grumpy look in his face. The moon is so bright Zuko can see him as if beneath daylight, hair up in a bun instead of the usual ponytail, boomerang on the grass between his feet. Zuko pries the window open, inch by inch, so as to not make too much noise.

“Sokka,” he calls, muted, though the wind carries his voice. “What the everloving fuck are you doing up at this hour?”

If Zuko were crueler, he would’ve laughed at the way Sokka startles, grabbing his only weapon and settling into a fighting position in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t. Instead, he stays motionless and waits for Sokka to calm himself down, heaving deep breaths and closing his eyes before turning around and lifting his head up to face Zuko.

“Warn a guy, jerkbender,” he says, not bothering to be as quiet as Zuko. “Almost scared me halfway to death. Tui and La.”

“Sorry,” Zuko says, not that sorry at all. “You didn’t answer me. What are you doing up?”

Sokka shrugs. Zuko can see his the sheepishness on his face all the way up from the second floor of the palace, so he raises a hand before Sokka can bother to come up with something. “Hold your breath,” Zuko says, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m coming down.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Sokka’s protests. The royal robe the servants had brought him fits perfectly, and yet feels completely out of place over his body. He hates it, but the seamstress—Lenika—had looked so proud of herself that he couldn’t help but keep it anyway. Plus, it’s a cold night. He can weather it for a few minutes.

Sokka is still in the courtyard when he arrives outside, though he’s now sitting down on the grass. He raises his hand in a silent greeting when he sees Zuko, lips twitching into a smile, but he lets them both fall as soon as Zuko sits beside him, leaning back on his hands. The earth is soft and slightly damp between his fingers, and Zuko absently thinks that Toph must be having the time of her life walking around the palace’s gardens. 

“So,” he says, when it seems clear that Sokka is not going to say anything if not prompted. “Is there any reason for this midnight rendezvous?”

Sokka snorts, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “ _Rendezvous_ , he says. Man, sometimes I forget you were raised as royalty.”

Zuko raises his eyebrow. “I’m the head of state, Sokka.”

“You know what I mean,” Sokka says, still smiling a little. “A lowly Water Tribe peasant and the leader of the Fire Nation? Sounds like a story for the Ember Island Players.”

“Let’s hope they never catch wind of this,” Zuko says. “It isn’t worth the trauma.”

Sokka starts a little at the word _trauma_ , his eyes darting to the sky and then back down to the ground again. It would’ve been too quick for anyone else to notice, but Zuko is well-versed in the art of watching the way Sokka moves around the world. He glances up to the sky, and _ah_. He should’ve realized before. The moon is out tonight.

Zuko doesn’t know all of the details. He knows the gist of it—he was _there_ , after all, though he tries not to think of it. He remembers the crazed look in Zhao’s eyes, the way he’d willingly let himself be taken by the Ocean Spirit instead of taking Zuko’s hand; remembers the round, kind face of Princess Yue, white hair stark against her brown skin. Yue gave her life so balance would be maintained; she gave herself back to La, and in doing so, guaranteed that her people would live another day.

Of course, Zuko also knows that Yue and Sokka were _involved_ for the duration of his stay at the North Pole. Sokka always says that Yue never technically died; she promised she’d always be with him, as long as the Moon was in sight. It makes it a bit weird to do anything with Sokka at night, when he can see it; Zuko always feels like he’s disrespecting her memory, in some way. He knows Suki feels the same. 

“Do you miss her?” Zuko asks. “Yue?”

Sokka twirls his boomerang between his hands, his head tilting absently towards the sky. “Do I miss her?” He echoes. The Moon is half full, looking down at them like a lidded eye. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes. We barely knew each other. I didn’t have her for much time, in the end.”

Zuko hums. He draws a line in the earth with his finger, then another. “We’re at war,” he says. “Long-term isn’t the first thing in people’s minds. You find love wherever you can and rush along with it for as long as it lets you.”

He tries not to see the faces. Jin. Mai. That Earth Kingdom boy, Lee. Love isn’t exactly the word Zuko wants to use, but it’s the only one he can find. 

“We were at war,” Sokka says. 

Zuko blinks at him. “What?”

“We _were_ at war,” Sokka repeats. He turns to face Zuko fully, and despite the seriousness of his voice, he just looks tired. “You used present tense. We’re not _at_ war anymore, Zuko.”

“Oh,” Zuko says, blinking at his own hands. “I didn’t even notice I said it.”

Sokka smiles ruefully at him. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s easy to let it slip.”

“That’s an understatement,” Zuko mutters. Sokka just looks at him, tiredness and something else softening the edges of his face. He reaches out and takes Zuko’s hand, and Zuko lets him. He doesn’t want to not hold something right now. If their hands are empty except for their hands—at least they’re the emptiness filling each other’s spaces. 

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “Yeah, it is.”

For some reason, Zuko feels as if the sky should be lightning up with the first rays of day. A sunrise would give a finality to this moment, the sort of closure that the night itself can never give. But Zuko can feel in his chest that the Sun is still hours away; all around them, there’s only silvery moonlight and shadows, the trees of the garden swaying gently in the breeze. He breathes deeply, letting a stream of warm air envelop he and Sokka both. Sokka shivers a little, squeezing Zuko’s hand.

“Come on,” Zuko says. “Let’s get inside.”

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” Sokka says, cheekily, and it almost sounds like everything is okay.

Zuko leads Sokka by the hand back inside the palace, and when Sokka takes one last look at the sky before walking in, Zuko pretends he doesn’t see it.

**ii.**

In the Fire Nation, there is a tradition to honor those responsible for heroic deeds.

It’s a noble art. Firewriting, the Sages call it. A form of firebending as old as bending itself, from the time fire and all the other elements belonged only to the Lion Turtles. To bend flame into words, and press it into the hero’s skin; it leaves behind a mark, faded and dark as ashes. The word itself depends on what the honored has done. 勇敢な心, for bravery in battle; 名誉限界, for exceptional duties to the Fire Nation; and ヒーロー. The hero’s mark.

Katara looks at the words on the inside of her wrist and part of her wants to tear it off with her own teeth. 

She tried to be okay with it. She really did. Zuko had looked so excited as he described to them the tradition, eyes shining as he recounted the very few times he’d ever seen the Firewriting ceremony take place. _It’s beautiful,_ he’d said. _The Fire Sage’s bending is always powerful, but when you use a form as ancient as that one—it becomes something more. Like what Aang and I did with the Sun Warriors._

_Everything is more powerful at its roots,_ she remembers Aang saying. He, too, had been beaming. His face was like the sun.

And when they talked like that, it did sound beautiful. Katara did feel a flutter of excitement in her stomach when she took her place in front of the Fire Sage, arm extended in front of her, head bowed in respect. When the flames grazed her skin, they didn’t even burn.

It’s not _logical_. She’s well aware of that. They’re just words, and yeah, sure, maybe they’re permanent, but Katara has dealt with many more permanent markings before. Her skin is a map of scars and history, traced together to form everything that she is. This, dark even against her brown skin in the Fire Nation Summer, is merely a footnote. 

Which doesn’t explain why she _hates_ it so much. 

Katara sighs, running her hands through her hair. She’s tied it back on top of her head, in the way she’s seen many Fire Nation girls do; a sort of topknot that takes the entire hair, and still lets it fall down her back. It looks—pretty. _It’s practical_ , she tells herself. Summer in this place is scorching, and she hadn’t been able to focus on her tasks with her hair glued to her neck. She’ll be able to go back to braids in no time.

It’s a summer night like she’s never seen before. In the South Pole, it would probably be time for the Midnight Sun, keeping watch over them for the entirety of the season. As a waterbender, it was Katara’s least favorite time of the year. All light, no warmth, and her bending was flimsy at the best of times. But here, though it took a while for nightfall to arrive, it did. The sky is clear and splattered with stars, nameless constellations she has no recollection of, the air soft and warm on her skin. No matter where she finds herself in the palace grounds, the night always smells like this—like smoke and the sweetness of blooming flowers. It’s hard not to feel at home. 

She shudders at the thought, water splashing down on her clothes, and pretends she didn’t. She had to move her bending practice to later in the day, because Sokka, the moron, had gone and gotten himself sun poisoning, which she didn’t even know was a _thing_ , and she had to stay with him as he shivered with fever and threw up and whined like a little child. Katara would have spent the entire night with him, if it wasn’t for Zuko coming to relieve her of her duties—he cleared up his evening schedule for the day, because Suki was on evening patrol, and neither of them wanted to leave Sokka alone. When Katara tried to argue that he didn’t need to do that, Zuko had given her a secret smile.

_I_ do _want to take care of him_ , he said, _but it_ is _also an excuse. Don’t tell on me._

So here she is. In the inner courtyard (seriously, how many inner courtyards does this place have? What about the _outer_ courtyards? She’s yet to see any), the only one she’d found a fountain in, practicing by herself. She would have invited Aang along, but these days he’s nearly as busy as Zuko. Turns out, ending a war is not as easy at it sounds on paper. It’s been a month, but all of them have been in and out of meetings and conferences, with officials both from the Fire Nation, Colonies and the Earth Kingdom, solving issues and little details that Katara didn’t even know existed. Even Toph, the human equivalent of a punch in the face when it comes to social niceties, has found her footing as the new Fire Lord’s personal lie detector. 

_Well_ , she muses, lifting her hands above her head in one fluid motion, watching the water sparkle against the fire from the torches along the outer hallway. _Who knew peacetime could be this chaotic?_

For a moment, the light hits her left wrist just right, making the words seem even clearer than usual. Without even realizing it, Katara lets her hands fall to her sides, and water splashes all around her.

“Wow,” comes a voice from somewhere in her left. “Did you do that on purpose, or...?”

Katara whips around suddenly, her shoulders squaring up, but she relaxes when she sees it’s only Suki, in her casual robes but still full Kyoshi makeup, walking towards her with her hands raised in a pacifying gesture. “Don’t mind me,” Suki says. There’s a piece of wet cloth in her hand, and she rubs it against her forehead, more smearing the white against her skin than removing it. “I’m just. You know. Taking a stroll.”

Katara raises her eyebrows, amused. “The head of the Kyoshi warriors is taking a _stroll_? I’ll have to report your lack of decorum to the Fire Lord.”

Suki laughs, loud and clear as a spring of water. “ _Zuko_ and _decorum_ are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence,” she says, a teasing glint in her eyes. She sits on the edge of the fountain, graciously not mentioning the absolute mess Katara has made, and looks at her expectantly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in _ages_ ,” she says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Katara says, moving the misplaced water into the fountain once again. She wrings her hair with both hands, turning to look at Suki. “Took care of Sokka, had lunch with Aang. I was planning on going out into the Caldera shops this morning, but, you know,” she gestures with one hand toward the Eastern wing of the palace, where the Firewriting ceremony took place earlier. 

“Yeah,” Suki says, looking down at her own wrist. The same words mark her skin, though they’re much more noticeable than Katara’s. She looks away, quicker than she meant to, but Suki doesn’t seem to notice. “I thought it was pretty neat. Firewriting and all. I did warn Zuko that if I felt even an ounce of pain, I would throttle a Fire Sage, so I’m glad that didn’t happen.”

Katara lets out a laugh, and it only sounds a little forced. With only the fire lighting Suki’s silhouette, she can almost pretend nothing has changed since the end of the war; that they’re still on top of a hill outside the Fire Nation, camping together around a bonfire, somewhere Katara can keep everyone at arm’s length. But she blinks, and the illusion shatters; she’s wearing Fire Nation red, because her Water Tribe clothes had been taking in for washing, and Suki is wearing dark brown pants she’s stolen from Zuko, on top of a red tank top. 

And that fucking mark on their skin. 

This time, Suki does notice the shift in Katara’s demeanor. Katara’s not exactly sure what her face does, but Suki is smarter than any of them give her enough credit for, besides her ability in battle. 

“Hey,” Suki says. “Hey. _Hey_.” She waits for Katara to look properly at her, dabbing the cloth against one of her eyes. A streak of red drips down her nose, and she raises one painted eyebrow. “Spill, Water Tribe. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing,” Katara mutters, rubbing one hand against her cheek. “It’s stupid.”

“So it _is_ something,” Suki presses on, relentless. “You and your brother are terrible at this.”

Katara rolls her eyes, but still keeps her gaze on the ground as she answers. “The—tattoo,” she says, stumbling on the word. _Marking_ sounds too aggressive. “It makes me uncomfortable. To look at. I don’t know why. I know what it means, I know it’s supposed to be honorable, or whatever. But,” she makes a despairing gesture. “I don’t know.”

They’re silent for a moment, and then Suki says, “Okay. I’m going to take a wild guess as to why this is bothering you, and you can feel free to tell me to fuck off if I’m wrong. Deal?”

Katara giggles in spite of herself. “Deal.”

“You’re either uncomfortable because of the language,” Suki says, “which you’ve associated with the enemy since you were a little kid. Or you are uncomfortable because of what it means.”

Katara opens her mouth, and then closes it. Suki takes her hand, gently, and places her fingers on top of the words. ヒーロー. “A hero’s mark,” she says. “Do you think you’re a hero, Katara?”

“No,” Katara says immediately, and closes her eyes when she realizes what she said. “I mean—I don’t—I know what I did was heroic, but.”

“But,” Suki prompts, after it seems like Katara has run out of words. 

“But I’m just a kid,” Katara whispers, looking intently at her and Suki’s joined hands. “Tui and La, Suki, I’m not even fifteen yet. I’m not a hero. I just did what had to be done because no one else would.”

Suki watches her in silence for a moment. The flickering fire makes her look unreal, trembling like a mirage. Then she shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Wow,” she says. “You and Sokka are literally _the same person_.”

That’s the last thing Katara expected to hear. She blinks, but Suki doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer.

“Did you even hear what you said?” Suki says. “You did what you had to do because no one else would. You stepped up to fight, and you did the right thing even though it hurt like hell, even though it should have never fallen on your shoulders. You did the best you could with the cards you were dealt, and by doing that, you literally saved the world.” She nudges Katara’s shoulder playfully. When Katara doesn’t react, Suki’s amusement falls. Her next words are serious. “Seriously, Katara. You can feel however you want about this. It’s not my place to dictate you feelings. But don’t ever, for even a _second_ , think you’re not worthy of being called a hero.”

Katara swallows roughly. She squeezes Suki’s hand, looking at her friend—her best friend; the first true warrior she’d ever seen in action, the first girl she’d ever seen fight, that protected her home with her fists and fans and sheer determination. “You’re a hero too, Suki,” Katara says. “Out of everyone I know, I can’t think of a better one.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Suki deadpans, in a way that makes her sound eerily like Zuko. Then she smiles, soft and private, and kisses Katara on the forehead. “Come on, girl. I hear there are sweets to be raided in the palace kitchens.”

“You’re impossible,” Katara says, but she doesn’t need to be told twice. The fire flickers, and the night is endless in front of them. 

**iii.**

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Toph says, to no one in particular. “Another one?”

The servant that handed her the letter swallows audibly. Even without her earthbending, Toph would have been able to feel the way he shifts nervously in place. “I’m sorry, milady,” he says. His voice cracks in the last word, making it seem like was asking a question.

Fair enough. No one _really_ knows what to call Toph—she’s not a princess, and though she’s technically nobility, no one in the Fire Nation knows that—, and she revels in their confusion. More than anything, she revels in the way she apparently has all of the palace staff either terrified of her, or wrapped around her finger.

Or she _would_ be revelling in it, if her eyes weren’t stinging so badly. 

She’s not going to cry. She won’t. But the fury in her chest is making her throat close up in a way that tastes suspiciously like tears, and she wants to crumble up that meaningless piece of paper in her hands and tear it apart inch by inch. She wants to break something with her bare hands, shake the earth, until this feeling stops feeling so inescapable, until her anger softens into something that can resemble peace. 

“Do you need anything else, my lady?”, the servant asks, and Toph had nearly forgotten he was there at all. She shakes her head absently, but when he seems to hesitate in leaving, she forces herself to speak up.

“No,” she says, and the voice sounds rough even to her own ears. She clears her throat and tries again. “No. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. You can go now.”

He bows and scurries away, but Toph is hardly paying attention anymore. She blinks and breathes and can’t decide whether she wants to scream or laugh.

Who do her parents think they are? They never—okay, maybe it wasn’t fair of her to have expected them to have sent her letters while she was a runaway, considering she had no fixed address and was, you know, a _criminal_ , but still. A part of her, a part that feels bitter and coiling around her chest, wants to throw this letter in the fireplace and forget all about it; let the letters come. _Let them come, and let they burn. Let them see just how much I care about what they have to say to me._

But another part of her hesitates. Falters. _Why couldn’t you have said them when I was there?,_ it wants to ask. _Why was silence the only way you knew how to love me?_

She clenches her fist around the paper. _It wasn’t enough ._

Toph raises her hand at the same time the knock on the door comes; three knocks, more tentative than any nobleborn’s should be. Zuko. She’s told him there’s no need to knock— regardless of the fact that she always knows when and who’s coming, she tries her best to keep her door open whenever she’s inside. Even so, she appreciates the courtesy. Zuko has capital I issues about everything, and personal boundaries are one of them. She’s not about to dunk on him for something he can’t help.

“Hi, Toph,” he says, quietly, standing in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

She rolls her eyes. “Why do you even ask, Sparky?”

She doesn’t know what he does with his face, but he comes in and closes the door behind him. Issues, she’s saying. 

Zuko walks over to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, a massive and fluffy thing that has an incredible texture, and for some reason Toph will never understand, she has two of. Being a trusted friend of the Fire Lord has its perks.

She knows the beat of his heart the way she knows her own—just a little too quick, a little too intense, like a fire that’s fighting to keep its light. It doesn’t sound any more faster than usual, and though Toph knows Zuko’s allowed to seek her out even when nothing’s wrong, she can’t help but be a little on edge. “What’s up?” she says. “You better not be staring at me like a creep.”

Zuko chuckles. “What are you gonna do about it?” he says. “Glare in my general direction?”

“That’s low, Sparky.”

“One of my many talents,” he says, and Toph can hear the smile in his voice. She smiles back at him, fingers playing absently with the letter. “Though I should be the one asking what’s up with you,” Zuko adds, after a moment of silence. “I heard that mail from the Earth Kingdom arrived. I wanted to check on you.”

Toph ignores that last part. “Why did you hear about that?”, she asks instead. 

“I’m the head of state,” Zuko says, in a way that makes it sound like he’s said this one too many times. “Everything passes by me. Consider me all knowing or whatever.” He makes a wide gesture with his hand. “And I know what you’re doing. Answer the question, Toph.”

She groans, spreading her legs and arms over the arms of her chair. “I’m fine,” she says. “Perfect. Dandy. Just fucking incredible.”

Zuko doesn’t miss a beat. “Your parents sent you another letter, didn’t they?”

Toph deflates suddenly. It’s late, and she’s tired, and she really, really wants a hug from her—no. She _really_ wants a hug from Katara, but she would rather die before saying that out loud.

“Yeah,” Toph says, quietly. “Yeah, they did.”

“Has anyone read it to you?” Zuko asks, voice soft. Toph shakes her head. “Do you want me to?”

“I want,” Toph says, “to throw this in the fire and never think about those people again.”

There’s a pause, in which Toph imagines Zuko is actually considering it. Bless his heart. But then, almost against her will, the words come spilling out of her mouth. “But I don’t really want that,” she whispers. “I want them to understand. I want to sit them down and tell them who I am and what I am and I want them to listen to me. I want them to want to listen to me. I want them to stop sending their blind daughter letters they know someone else will have to read to her and pretending that can pass as caring. I want them to stop and leave me alone and I want them to come back. But not like this,” she says, voice rising in pitch. She hugs her legs against her chest, paper crinkling against her skin. “Not if it’s going to be like it was before.” Toph breathes, and breathes, and breathes. “It was a pretty picture,” she finishes, voice small, “but I could never see how pretty it was. It wasn’t happy. It wasn’t real. It was just nice to look at.”

Toph is ridiculously thankful that Zuko closed the door when he walked in. Whatever sort of emotional breakdown _that_ was, no one else has any business eavesdropping on it. 

She feels him moving towards her, sitting down on the ground in front of her chair. Zuko’s steps are practiced, calm and soft as his breathing. A firebender in his every move.

“Toph,” Zuko says, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “What do you want to tell them?”

“Too much,” she answers, closing her eyes. “What I want to tell them it’s too much. It won’t fit anywhere.”

“Well,” Zuko says airily, “we’ll have to see about that.”

He stands up, and walks over to her bedside table, rummaging through a drawer for a second, and then goes back to where he came from, flopping down next to her. Toph frowns, and reaches her hand towards whatever he’s holding; he hands the items to her without question, so she can feel them. A sheet of paper, coarse and unmarked under her fingers, a quill, and a small glass bottle she figures must be ink. 

“What the fuck,” she says, eloquently. 

Zuko’s smile threatens to swallow his whole voice. “I’m your scribe for the night, Miss Bei Fong,” he says. “Try me. What do you want to tell them?”

Toph blinks. Falters. And then, she talks.

  
  


**iv.**

Everything important in Aang’s life happened during Spring.

He knows he’s not the best at keeping track of dates, but he knows the passing of the seasons like the back of his hand. He knows that when you see the first flower bloom in Winter, you can count fifty days before the ice starts to crack; that the air in Autumn always tastes differently than any other, earthy and sweet like a wild berry; that the brightest day of the year marks the beginning of Summer, and that each week of Spring is like a completely different season.

Which is why he knows this. He was born on Spring’s second week, which means he met Appa during Spring, too, just after he turned ten. His favorite Air Nomad holiday happened on the fourth week—Yangchen’s Festival, when all the airbenders used to make yearly pilgrimages to the statue of Lady Tienhai, to celebrate Avatar Yangchen's legacy. The day of forgiveness,原谅, marks the last day of the season. And Aang didn’t pay attention to it in the moment, but he knew as soon as he stepped out of that iceberg: even through the ice and snow of the South Pole, Spring graced his life once more.

And Aang doesn’t really know how to feel about it. When they were (he doesn’t want to say on the run, even though it’s technically true) travelling, there wasn’t much time to pay attention to the passing of seasons, other than some mild comments he made along the way. _Wow, I can’t believe Spring is nearly over. It doesn’t even feel like Winter! Wait, is it Autumn already_ _?_

It’s been one year since Katara and Sokka found him. It’s been one month since he defeated Fire Lord Ozai and brought balance back to the world. 

Aang doesn’t like the way the other nations keep track of time. He doesn’t like the way it seems to be rubbing off on him. 

The halls of the palace seems spookier than usual at this time of night. Not that they look any less intimidating in the day time, what with the high ceilings and golden tapestries and creepily creaking floorboards, but Aang keeps looking over his shoulder to make sure that there’s no one behind him. He managed to lose the guards two corners ago, and he’s not keen on having to deal with anyone else tonight. 

He’s not doing anything _illegal_. He wouldn’t. _Though I suppose the concept of legality is really questionable right now,_ Aang thinks, using the wood of his air glider to propel himself forward. But no, that’s not the point of this. 

Aang knows how people look at him whenever he’s performing Air Nomad traditions in front of them. Even Katara and Sokka, who by now try to keep a façade of extreme nonchalance, look weirded out by them from time to time. He knows it’s not their fault, and he isn’t ashamed of his culture, but he’d rather do things like this alone. The stares only help to remind how other he is—how he’s the only one who’s done this in a hundred years. He wonders if the Spirits missed them. He wonders what they felt when he came back, and finally started talking to them again. 

The way to the rooftop is second nature to him, by now. The palace is beautiful, but restrictive; even the windows seem narrow and impersonal. The courtyards are fine, but not what he’s looking for, so rooftop it is. The only person crazy enough to follow him there is Zuko, and Zuko is passed out in his room with Sokka and Suki. (Aang knows. He checked.)

It’s lean and narrow, but Aang glides until he finds more solid ground. The Fire Nation is asleep all around him; the noises from the Caldera, who’s bars are usually open until very late, are muted. Aang mutters a quiet prayer to the 精神 for their kindness, and then gets to work.

He takes the orange ribbon he’d found in the seamstress’ room earlier and the two tiny wooden boxes he’d been making for the past year. He places one of the boxes on his left arm, close to his heart, and starts wrapping the ribbon, from his upper arm down to his wrist; then, he places the other box on his forehead, between his eyes. When he’s done, he closes his eyes, and starts talking.

“I greet you with respect,” Aang says, the words familiar in his mouth. “I greet you with a light heart and a mind full of gratitude. I greet you with sorrow, and hope, and all that comes between. I thank you, 氣息, keepers of the wind, for the year’s turning and the season’s end. For everything I have done, and all that I still have left to do.” He bows his head, moving his body backwards and forwards, hands clasped together in front of him. Taking a deep breath, Aang opens his eyes.

The tears that blur his vision are involuntary. He blinks them away, swallowing up his heart, and moving forward. The prayer is done. Whatever he says next is his and his alone.

“Hi,” he says, breathlessly. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I’m sorry there was no one else. I’m so, so sorry. I keep thinking—everyday when the last day of Spring kept getting closer, I kept thinking how alone you must have felt. We prayed for you every year, and then the war came, and I left, and there was no one else.” Aang takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “I am sorry,” he repeats. “I’m not ashamed of what I did anymore. But I won’t ever forget it, and I will not let it happen again.”

The night sky seems ready to swallow him whole. There is no Moon out tonight, and Aang is secretly thankful. This is too personal for even Yue to witness.

“So,” he keeps going. “I’m not going to ask for anything. You don’t have to forgive me. But I am sorry. And I think,” he pauses, then smiles shyly at his own hands. “I think I might even be happy. I think I might be working towards it. And I thank you for that.”

Wind whispering in his ears, snaking down his back. The 精神, the Jīngshén, tasting his words. They must’ve been so hungry, all this time. Aang remembers Gyatso saying that the Air Nomads were the only ones that still prayed to them. 

Aang bows his head once more, and waits. When the wind passes through him and leaves, he breathes again. “I’ll come back next year,” he says. “And the year after that. And the one after that.” Aang laughs, sudden and bright, and hears it echo through the palace. “You’ll see,” he tells the air, eyes shining. “Time will pass and there’ll be so much love, you won’t be able to see beyond it.”

The night and the wind are one. The stars laugh with him.

**Author's Note:**

> hi :D so. what did you guys think!!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated! if you want to yell at me, you can do that on twitter @bornfrombeauty. til next time!


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